


Just Hold On (We're Going Home)

by RoseByAnyOtherName17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle, F/M, Minor OC - Freeform, Minor Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Reunions, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8121073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseByAnyOtherName17/pseuds/RoseByAnyOtherName17
Summary: Arya was not a hero.But she was home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this came to me before I fell asleep one night and it kind of built from there. I'm not too sure about the language, so let me know if there are any changes that should be made. I hope you all enjoy!

Whatever she was, it wasn’t a hero.

 

“A hero _ine,_ ” she could practically hear Sansa correcting her. “For a girl it’s a heroine. And they aren’t very common in the stories.” No matter what they were called, Arya was not one of them, and she knew it.

 

Now, standing in the middle of her mother’s old home, watching men carry out the bodies of other men to bury or burn somewhere else, she became all the more aware of that. Heroes did not feel joy in killing, in watching the blood spill from a man’s heart, from wounds that decorated his body like red roses. They did not take pleasure in slowly piercing a man’s skin with a blade and seeing him choke for air as he died. They did not smile when ordering for the corpse to burned.

 

Arya Stark was not a hero. But she was almost home.

 

She had only met her Uncle Edmure once, when she was very small, and his face was too fuzzy to remember. He had had a warm laugh though, and she thought that his hair must have been very soft and long when she tugged on it with chubby hands. He stood beside her now, a safe distance away, still wary of the direwolf that Arya stroked the ear of with one hand.

 

“I wouldn’t believe you were who you say you are, had I not seen your brother with his own wolf,” Edmure said now, looking down at her.

 

“I wouldn’t believe you were who you say _you_ are, if you didn’t have the same eyes as my mother.” And he did. She had recognized him the moment she had burst into the courtyard, slashing left and right with Needle, in that split second that their eyes locked. He looked haggard and aged beyond his years, but there was no mistaking Tully eyes, and in the midst of battle she had felt horrible heartbreak all over again.

 

Edmure chuckled softly. “Cat would be giving you a good lecture right about now.”

 

Arya turned to him sharply. “I did what I had to do to survive. We all have.” She walked away. “Nymeria, come.”

 

The direwolf followed her, as she had when they met in the middle of the trees, following the sound of death.

 

She ignored the glances that were shot in her direction, shy and blatantly obvious alike. There were whispers, and it occurred to her that maybe she would be given a name like Robb had all that time ago. _I don’t want another name._ There had been far too many names since her father died.

 

She encountered a few women in the castle, making their way down from the towers that they had hidden in during the fighting. They thanked her quietly, and then looked again when they saw her braided hair, her soft, long-fingered hands that had no calluses on the outside. She didn’t stop until she reached the top of the tower, where the rest were waiting, and flung open the doors.

 

Not many women had made it in during the siege, and those who had looked tough to have gotten so far. Their faces were drawn in exhaustion, but blue, green, brown, grey eyes shone from above sharp cheekbones and below furrowed brows. Arya surveyed them quietly and then said, “The battle is over. Riverrun belongs to the Tullys once more.”

 

Smiles broke out, children laughed to see their mother so joyful again, even though they did not understand why. One little girl rushed over to Arya and gave her a fleeting hug, letting go before she could react, and a woman who she assumed was the girl’s mother approached her. She stood straight, looking right into her eyes as the woman pulled her daughter close. “You look too young to have fought,” was what she said.

 

“This was my mother’s home,” Arya answered. “When I heard of the siege, I had to help.”

 

“What is your name, child?”

 

“Arya Stark, of Winterfell.” She rested a hand atop Nymeria’s head. “Your husbands and fathers are in the yard,” she added louder, so that the rest of the women could hear. “I imagine that the normal etiquette may be forgotten, if you wish to see them.” She turned to go.

 

“Are you really her?” The woman was staring at her, eyes wide. “She’s been dead for years.”

 

“Not dead,” Arya said, walking away. “Just someone else.”

 

The moment she had returned to Westeros, she had slipped back into her old skin that stayed quiet and listened, gathering information to act on accordingly. Rumors of Jon Snow flew. Some said he was dead, others said that he had retaken Winterfell. Arya planned to go there straight away, but when she heard of Riverrun next, she chose instead to steal a horse and head to the Riverlands. It was there that she found the large pack of wolves, led by the biggest of them all. For a moment Arya could see herself approaching the wolf, and then she opened her mouth to speak and howled long and loud, snapping back into her own body. Arya could only watch as the direwolf bounded to her, knocking her back into the grass. She sniffed her all over, baring her teeth when Arya tried to touch her, until she breathed, “Nymeria.”

 

The wolf pack followed their leader, who followed Arya, day after day until they came upon Riverrun and the bloodshed around and inside it. Without a second thought she charged in, Nymeria at her horse’s heels, and the pack set about destroying the camps left abandoned on the edge of the forest. They killed no men, and when the fight was over, they left for their trees, and Nymeria stayed by her side.

 

She knew that the damage of battle would not be repaired in a day, especially not of this scale. It would be expected that she stay to oversee it, but she was not the Lord of Riverrun, and she had no loyalty to this place. If she had to, she would slip away silently in the night, as she had many times before. It wouldn’t be difficult. It would be easy, and if anyone stood in her way, well…she had a direwolf by her side.

 

“Where did you learn to fight?” Edmure asked her later, sitting inside the mostly untouched hall where every man, woman and child was crammed haphazardly without regard to title or rank. She talked around the food in his mouth, and she wondered how long it had been since he’d had a properly cooked meal, until she realized that she hadn’t had one in a long time either. She stuffed food into her own mouth before replying.

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 

“Then tell me the story so I can have a good laugh.” Edmure shook his head. “Gods know I would like it.” His tiny Frey wife sat on his other side, alternating between feeding the little child she held in her arms and putting morsels into her own mouth. She wouldn’t look at Arya for too long, and when she did she looked afraid.

 

“It started with Jon Snow,” Arya said softly, and he had to lean closer to hear her. “‘Stick them with the pointy end,’ he told me. And in Kings Landing, the best waterdancer in Braavos continued.” She spoke of her time with the Night’s Watch, of Harrenhal and the Brotherhood Without Banners and the Hound and the Faceless Men. Of each and every one of her escapes. Edmure listened, and asked questions, and when she was finished, he took her hand in his own. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he murmured.

 

For the first time in a long time, she let herself cry.

 

She stumbled to her room for the night and took a bath, letting one of the handmaidens that seemed to come from nowhere wash and comb her hair. She almost fell asleep right there in the tub, but the handmaiden helped her put on nightclothes and stumble to the bed, where she tucked her under the covers and swept a strand of hair from her eyes. “Sleep well, milady.” And she slept until the sun was high over the treetops for the first time since her father’s death.

 

She asked for the tub to be refilled and wrestled Nymeria into it. The direwolf snapped a couple of times when the handmaiden tried to help. “I should have known you didn’t like water,” Arya scolded, scrubbing her wolf down and dunking water over her head so she could massage the rough soap into her fur. The handmaiden watched with wide eyes as Nymeria whipped her tail under the water, soaking Arya from the chest down. “Stay _still,”_ she insisted. “You haven’t had a bath in longer than I have.” It took almost an hour, and by the time Arya arrived down in the hall for breakfast, the men were eating lunch. They all stood at her entrance, eyes cast down respectfully, and she nodded to them as a whole. “I would like to thank you for helping my uncle reclaim Riverrun,” she said clearly, so that they could all hear her. “I have never watched men battle for a place rather than their lives before.”

 

“I have never seen a woman fight before,” a tall blonde man called from a few tables away. Arya ignored him, striding down between two of the tables and sitting next to Edmure.

 

“I can have a room set up for you permanently,” he told her.

 

She shook her head. “I’m headed north. If it’s true what they say about Jon, I have to find him.”

 

He sighed. “I expected as much. Would you allow me to send an escort?”

 

“It will be easier if I travel alone,” Arya said firmly. “Nymeria can protect me.”

 

“I must insist on sending someone with you.” Edmure looked stubborn, like her mother when she wanted Arya to sit down and do needlework. It was a look she knew not to argue with.

 

“Then I will choose the man.”

 

Edmure agreed.

 

Most of the faces were unfamiliar to her, but every now and then she would catch the eye of someone she had seen before, in the Brotherhood Without Banners. “Anguy!” she called out finally, and a man stopped in his path, putting down the firewood he carried in his arms.

 

“My Lady is alive,” he said in shock, taking a step toward her.

 

Arya couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face. “And headed home to Winterfell. My uncle has ordered me to find an escort.” She did not ask how he was, or what he had been doing. She had learned that it was best to save talk for the road, and not the preparations before. “You helped protect me once before, even if it was as a bargaining chip. Would you accompany me home?”

 

She could see the confusion on his face, trying to connect her to the little girl who had spoken loudly and without hesitation all that time ago. “I am afraid I can’t come with you, My Lady,” he said finally. “But I may know someone who can.” He picked up his firewood. “Are you open to suggestions?”

 

He led her across the yard to what she recognized as a forge. Anguy stepped inside and said something she couldn’t hear, and a moment later another man stepped out, brushing himself off as best he could. He was bigger than he had been when she last saw him, corded muscles twisting under his skin, and his hair was longer, but all she could see was the smudge of soot over his eyebrow that he had missed.

 

If she had paid attention, she would have seen just how proud of himself Anguy looked. As it was, she could only stare as Gendry stopped dead in his tracks, one hand frozen in where he had been about to scrub it through his hair. A million thoughts rushed through her at once, but the only one she could hold onto was the bull-head helmet he used to have, and if he still had it.

 

He recovered first. “I see M’lady got her sword back.”

 

She forgot that she was supposed to be Lady Arya Stark, and rushed forward. He caught her easily, whirling her around with the force of her embrace, and she held on tightly, burying her face in his neck, and realized that he still smelled like smoke and sweat and everything he had when they were both just children running from a war. It was the first familiar thing that she had had in years, and for a terrifying moment she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to let go.

 

To her relief, he embraced her just as hard, even when they’d stopped spinning, and her toes barely brushed the ground. She could feel his nose in her hair and something wet on her cheek, and she wasn’t sure which one of them was crying.

 

She could feel eyes on them, and she slowly let go, letting him set her gently back on the ground, though he didn’t move away, and she held onto his forearms. “I heard something about a girl and a wolf in the battle,” he said, “but I never thought it to be true.”

 

“I never thought you would be here,” Arya answered breathlessly. “Why _are_ you here?”

 

“I was with the Brotherhood when they rescued Lord Edmure. Why are _you_ here?”

 

“I wanted to help my family take back what is rightfully theirs.”

 

Anguy clapped Gendry on the shoulder. “It isn’t going to be easy, saying goodbye to this lad. But I imagine he’ll be happier traveling with you.”

 

Gendry’s fingers tightened where they cupped her elbows. “What do you mean?” he asked the archer, eyebrows furrowing.

 

“I’m returning to Winterfell,” Arya said, and she was horribly afraid that he would say no. “My brother may be there. I wanted to leave alone with Nymeria—” The direwolf’s ears pricked up, “—but my uncle wants me to have someone with me.” There was no doubt in her mind now who she wanted that to be.

 

“Is that a command, m’lady?” His eyes twinkled behind the shiny tears that still pooled there, and a wash of affection spread through her all the way to her toes.

 

“Don’t call me m’lady.” She freed one of her hands to smack his shoulder, but turned serious the next moment, uncaring that half the yard was sure to be watching them by now. “I would rather be asking my friend.”

 

A tear traced its way down his face, but he was smiling and pulling her forward again to hug her. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” he murmured into her hair.

 

She couldn’t respond; she was grinning so hard that her cheeks hurt and hiding it in his chest.

 

Everything moved quickly. She left Gendry then, half afraid that if she didn’t let go she wouldn’t be able to. Gathering the essentials was the easy part; informing Edmure of her decision in traveling companion was not.

 

“Arya, I cannot allow this.”  


“Why not? I have known him since my father died. I’ve traveled with him before, he’s protected me. We’ve protected each other!”

  
Edmure was shaking his head. “He is no knight. He won’t be able to keep you safe.”

 

“I trust him more than I trust anyone else in Riverrun,” Arya said firmly. “He was my best friend once; he knew who I was when I was with the Night’s Watch recruits and he kept it a secret until _I_ came out with it.” He closed his eyes and she put her hands on her hips angrily, feeling like a little girl again. “You won’t be able to stop me. No one has, not even the Faceless Men when I failed them.”

 

He made as if to grab her arm, but stopped halfway through when her hand reflexively dropped to the hilt of Needle at her hip. “I understand that you have known him.” Edmure lowered his voice. “But there are other risks. Arya, he is Robert Baratheon’s bastard. If what they say of Cersei Lannister and her brother is true, he may be have a claim to the throne. There will be a price on his head, even now.”

 

Shock flared briefly, but she had learned a long time ago how to school her face into an expression that she wanted. “He hasn’t been caught yet.” She looked him in the eye. “And he won’t. Stannis Baratheon is the real threat now. It is not known whether he is dead or alive,” she continued when Edmure opened his mouth to argue. “Just as it is still unknown that I am. I will declare myself at Winterfell, if Jon is there, and if he isn’t then Gendry and I will continue to hide.”

  
“It will be impossible to hide with your direwolf,” Edmure warned her. “You will not be able to keep your identity a secret for long.”

 

“As far as the rest of Westeros knows, Nymeria abandoned me on the road to Kings Landing, if they know about her at all. Winter is coming,” she told him, and watched the way his eyes flashed with something like fear, “and I will be home when it does. Gendry is who I choose to accompany me.”

 

She saw the exact moment that he realized that she would not be deterred, and turned to go and choose a horse from the stables.

 

Sleep came just as easily as the night before, with Nymeria curled up beside her in the bed. She was grateful, because she intended to wake Gendry early and leave before too many people were about.

 

She dreamed in blurry images, unlike the dreams she used to have of being a wolf, but she could pick out a few faces, like Jon’s, and her father’s, and everyone she had ever loved. Gendry swam to the front in the bleary moments between sleep and wakefulness, and she clung to the color of his eyes as she came to her senses in the dim light coming in through the window. She gathered her things quickly and quietly, Nymeria’s eyes following her. When she whistled softly, the wolf got off of the bed and together they made their way through the castle.

 

The night guards spotted her from their posts, but made no move to stop her from crossing the yard to the forge. When she ducked inside, it was to find Gendry already moving about. “I stopped by the kitchen for some breakfast,” he whispered, so as not to wake the others who still slept at the back. “Have you everything you need?”

 

Arya nodded. “Have you?”

 

They were about to slip out through the north gate when someone softly called her name. She turned reluctantly to see Edmure striding across the yard. “I thought you might leave without saying goodbye,” he said accusingly, but his frown didn’t meet his eyes. He looked a little sad, and more than a little scared. She almost felt guilty for being the cause of that expression. Almost.

 

He frowned at her state of dress. “You do not look like a highborn lady.”

 

And she did not. She had chosen a well-worn tunic and trousers of a light, clingy material that tucked into the sturdy boots she wore. In the roll over her horse’s back was thicker clothing, for the cold further north. “It’s safer this way,” she explained. “We’ll blend in with any other travelers. If anyone asks, we’re going north to live with my ill cousin and his wife.”

 

“And what is Gendry to you and your family?”

 

“Would husband or brother be more believable, do you think?” It was a genuine question, though she knew immediately that he did not like it. She found that she didn’t really mind his distaste, more amused by it. He reminded her of Sansa in a way.

 

He didn’t answer the question, but patted Gendry on the shoulder and gave her a swift hug. “The castle will be waking soon,” he said instead. “You had best get a move on if you wish to slip away. I hope you find your brother,” he added sincerely. “A Stark should always be in Winterfell.”

 

She knew he was watching until the gates closed, but she didn’t look back.

 

 

 

 

For days, they traveled quickly and quietly, talking of little but the road ahead. They road their horses side-by-side, and at night they traded off keeping watch. The other slept within reach, and Arya found herself carding her fingers through Gendry’s hair more than once as she kept her eyes and ears trained on their surroundings. She hardly noticed until four days after they left, when he shifted into wakefulness in the early dawn light and his head tipped up enough that her fingers slipped down to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open in surprise and she startled away, getting to her feet and moving to untie the horses before she could think about it. That day was as quiet as the others, but there was a strange tension in the air between them. It hovered uncomfortably and she could hardly look at him. The next night, when she sat up against a tree and he lay on his back next to her, she folded her hands carefully in her lap. They both gazed up at the stars, and she thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke softly. “I didn’t mind,” he told her quietly, like it was a secret. “It felt nice.”

 

She hesitated for a full minute before gently threading her fingers through his hair, and he sighed. She felt his whole body go limp where he was stretched out alongside her, and after a moment he turned to his side so that his nose was pressed into her hip. His breathing slowed soon after.

 

After that it was like the first day. All she wanted to do was _talk_ to him about _everything_ , and even better, they had the time to. When she finished telling him of the Hound, he asked, “So you don’t still hate him then?”

 

Her gaze drifted to the trees ahead. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I left him for dead. He asked me for mercy and I…I walked away.” She didn’t look at him again until she saw his horse drift closer in the corner of her eye and a hand reached out to squeeze her own. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something like forgiveness in his eyes, and it gave her the courage to talk about the journey to Braavos and the Faceless Men.

 

Even so, it wasn’t until they were nearing the Neck that she told him the full story. “They almost killed me,” she said one night, lying with her head pressed against his hip the way he always did when she took watch, Nymeria curled up at her feet. “When I failed to be someone else,” she went on when he stiffened, “they sent the Waif after me.” She had told him about the Waif, about learning to lie to her and, more importantly, to the kindly man.

 

She felt his hand touch her shoulder and closed her eyes, pulling up her shirt enough to reveal her stomach. “She got me here,” she said, pointing to what was now only a red line running from her naval to her right hip, “and here.” She bent her leg up and rested a hand on her ankle. “She meant to cut me down, to finish me, but I learned to fight with my left hand. She had a knife. I had Needle. And I had learned to be blind.”

 

His fingers tightened slowly over her shoulder until the material was bunching up in his fist. “Gendry,” she whispered, touching the back of his hand. He stopped automatically, like he hadn’t even noticed it, but his leg was still tense where it rested along her side and when she opened her eyes to look up at him, his face was pinched in something that looked a lot like anger. She lifted his hand and settled it on top of her head, and he slowly began stroking her hair lightly. She wasn’t certain of who was more comforted by the action.

 

“I wondered about you,” he admitted. “After the Hound took you. The Brotherhood looked for you for ages, and we almost caught up once near the Twins. But we saw…we saw, and you were already gone. I thought they might have killed you too.”

 

“The Hound protected me,” Arya said. “He took me away.” She bit her lip. “I hated him for it, for a little bit. I wished I’d died too, with my mother and brother. All I wanted was to take revenge, and that’s why I went to the Faceless Men, because they could teach me how.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I should’ve known that they only kill for others and not themselves.”

 

“And what now?” His fingers weaved through her hair in a way that would leave it snarled later, but she didn’t mind. “Do you still want revenge?”

 

“Yes.” She didn’t even think about it. “But I want to find my family more. That’s what’s important to me right now, now that I know it’s possible.” His hand stilled and she saw the puzzled look in his eyes. She smiled. “I found you, didn’t I?”

 

He cleared his throat. “You should get some sleep.” But his lips curled up into a smile and he left his hand in her hair, nails gently scratching her scalp, until she drifted off.

 

 

 

 

“I saw you the day you got to Kings Landing,” Gendry said one morning. It was growing cooler the further they went, and the night before they had spent the night in a little abandoned barn. It was in ragged condition, but with the horses and Nymeria they were warm enough. “You were riding alongside your father and the King like you belonged there. I didn’t even realize that you had a sister until later on.”

 

Arya grinned. “Sansa was furious with me for that. It wasn’t my place to ride with the men, I was only the Hand’s daughter, and not even betrothed to Joffrey. She was always mad at me for some reason or another. I think the King tried to suggest that I go back in the shade with the Queen and Sansa, but I wanted to see the city.”

 

“You didn’t look much like a lady,” Gendry remarked.

 

“I never wanted to be one.”

 

“Oddly enough I worked that out myself.” He went on before she could respond. “So your brother Jon is a bastard, isn’t he?” She nodded, knowing he was already looking at her. “You seemed to speak of him more fondly than any of your brothers and sister. Why?”

 

She remembered how Jon would muss her hair and call her “little sister” like it was nothing. He taught her how to use a bow, and answered her anxious questions when she had them without hesitation, and never once treated her with anything but love. “He was—is—my brother,” she said after a long moment. “I was never like Sansa. I didn’t like needlework or sitting with the girls and women drinking tea. I liked to watch the boys practice swordplay in the yard. Bran was littler so he didn’t care, and Robb let me join in, but he didn’t really want me there. Jon always did.” She put a hand to the hilt at her hip. “He had Needle forged for me, before I left. He knew it was what I wanted more than anything else.”

 

“And it never mattered to you that he was a bastard?”

 

“Never,” she answered without pause.

 

A breeze swept through the rolling field around them and she shivered. It felt like something was coming alive inside of her with the chill, and she laughed out loud. When she glanced over at Gendry, he was staring at her with an affectionate expression. “What is it?” he asked.

 

“We’re here,” she told him, smiling so hard it hurt. “We’re North. I’m going to be home soon.” She kicked her heels into her horse’s sides and they took off across the field. She let out a long yell of joy. She heard hooves thundering behind as Gendry pursued her, and they didn’t stop until they reached the tree line that had seemed so far away just a few minutes before.

 

From there everything seemed both faster and slower. She recognized the change in the land and the temperature dropped day by day, until one day they woke up surrounded by snow. She was full of hope and happiness as well as wariness, because recognition would only become more likely now, but she was so close to home that she felt like she might vibrate out of her skin.

 

Nymeria began to wander off more and more, disappearing for hours at a time, but always coming back at nightfall. One afternoon Arya felt a flash of blood and a loud crack rent through her ears. “Come on,” she told Gendry, and he followed her off the path without question into the trees. They came upon Nymeria standing over a large stag, teeth stained red. Gendry stared in awe at the cleanness of the kill; the only blood leaking from the creature was from its torn-out throat.

 

The direwolf seemed to be waiting for Arya to decide what to do. “It’s yours, Nymeria,” she said quietly. “Go ahead.” Nymeria bowed down to begin eating the moment the words left her mouth, and they left her to her meal.

 

That night they stumbled upon a little cluster of houses near White Harbor. A sturdy woman came out of one of them, dressed warmly and carrying a torch. “Who are you?” she called suspiciously into the dark.

 

“We’re travelers,” Arya said honestly, stepping into the light of the torch. “Is there a room we can stay in for the night? We have coin to pay.” She felt Gendry curl an arm around her waist to rest his fingers lightly on her hip next to the hilt of Needle. When she blinked, she briefly saw herself and Gendry standing at the edge of the light from the trees, and knew Nymeria would stay there for the night.

 

The woman’s eyes softened a little bit. “I don’ suppose I can leave you out in this,” she said. “Follow me; my husband and I have an extra bed.”

 

“Thank you,” Arya said gratefully once they were inside sitting at a small table next to a small but warm fire. The woman didn’t smile, but she ladled soup into two bowls and set them at the table. “You are very kind.”

 

A man came stamping in a few minutes later. His eyebrows went up at the sight of the ragged looking pair eating in their home, but he only asked where they were going. “I have an aunt near Winterfell,” Arya told him. “Her husband has fallen ill and we plan to take care of their home for her.”

 

“That’s very kind of you,” the woman said, taking the man’s warm clothes and putting them by the fire to dry with Arya and Gendry’s. “Most wouldn’t be willing to take care of another like that.”

 

Arya could see a question brewing in Gendry’s eyes and waited for him to speak. “We haven’t had news from them in quite awhile,” he said finally between sips of broth. “Last we knew, they were starving; not enough food was sent to the townspeople.”

 

“That would be Lord Bolton’s work,” the woman sighed. “But Lord Manderly has ridden to Winterfell. There have been rumors…” She glanced uncertainly at the man, who patted her hand reassuringly. “They say that the bastard is dead,” she went on. “And that there are Starks in Winterfell once again. There have been men heading South to escape the winter and they’ve brought news.”

 

Arya felt a flutter of hope in her chest and squeezed Gendry’s hand under the table.

 

There was something different about sharing an actual bed rather than curling up under the same blanket on the floor of an abandoned barn or the dirt of the forest. If neither of them took watch for part of the night—Nymeria had taken to sitting vigil whether one of them was awake or not—they usually woke up wrapped around each other anyways, even if they’d started out with space between them (and the colder it got, the less space there was.) But it was warm in the little cupboard of a room that the woman showed them to after lending them both smallclothes so she could wash their own. Gendry kept his eyes averted until Arya had curled up under the thick quilt before joining her. He was stiff, until she rolled over and reached a hand up to run her fingers through his hair. He sighed, tilting his head like he couldn’t help it.

 

“Gendry,” she whispered. 

  
“Hmm?” He sounded well on his way to sleep already, which made it easier to ask the question she had on her lips.

  
“Are you going to stay with me when we reach Winterfell?”

 

Her fingers must have stilled, because he pushed up into her hand like a cat, humming low in his chest. “Of course I am,” he muttered. “Don’t be stupid.”

 

His voice was a curl of warmth low in her stomach and she settled on her side so that she could leave her fingers tangled in his hair. And when she woke up in the middle of the night with her back to his chest and his arm draped loosely around her waist, she burrowed closer and drifted back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

The man met them as they were leaving in the morning, holding a bundle. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at Gendry. “My wife didn’t want you to leave without some warm clothes and food.”

 

“Thank you for your kindness,” Arya said gratefully.

 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t sound like a commoner.”

 

“I grew up in a castle,” she answered, and a flicker of recognition was there.

 

“Gods go with you,” he said, and sent them on their way.

 

 

 

 

They were close. The taste of cold was sharp on Arya’s tongue and she was drowning in smells that reminded her so much of home that she wanted to cry. The land was frozen hard beneath the hooves of their horses, but every now and then it snowed, and a layer of white was spreading thicker the further they went.

 

One evening, as the sun was falling over the hills, Gendry tossed her a long, sturdy stick. “What’s this for?” she asked.

 

“You’ve been to a lot of places, Arya,” he said seriously. “But you’ve never fought on snow, not really. You may be a lady, but if I know you, that won’t stop you from defending your home. It never stopped you from defending those you cared about before.” He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye, blue to grey. “I need to learn too. I’m staying with you, and if that means I have to prove my worth to your brother then I’ll do it. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

 

She heard what he wasn’t saying, saw it written across his face. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she said quietly, stepping forward until there was only a foot of space between them. “Not to me, and not to my brother. I told you once that I could be your family. I meant it.” She was struck with how much older they had gotten. “I won’t let anyone send you away.” Her hand was shaking when she reached up to cup his cheek and pressed her forehead against his. His hands came up to her waist and they stood close, breathing the same air, snow falling around them.

 

“I don’t think this is allowed,” he whispered finally, nose nudging her cheek. But he wasn’t stepping away.

 

“I’ve done a lot of things I’m not allowed to do,” Arya reminded him, kissing the corner of his mouth and smiling when he shivered. She waited, a breath away from his lips, until he turned his head enough for them to brush together, and tilted forward like he couldn’t stop, and she kissed him and thought faintly that she might understand the way that her mother and father loved each other.

 

 

 

 

They could see Winterfell when they were met by men wearing no sigil on their arm. “The Kingsroad doesn’t approach Winterfell from the east,” one said, though there was a note of uncertainty like he didn’t actually know for sure. “Who are you? Why are you coming this way?”

  
“Arya Stark,” she answered without hesitation, and watched the confusion bloom across their faces.

 

“I don’t know much about anythin’ south of the Wall yet,” a large, red-bearded man said. “But I do know that she has been missin’ for years. I know her half-brother Jon. He’s spoken fondly of her.”

 

Her heart clenched. “Is he at Winterfell?” Gendry’s horse shuffled closer and she felt his leg brush against hers reassuringly. Her voice was quivering when she spoke again. “Is he…is he alive?”

 

The bearded man looked steadily at her. “He’s different from the last time you saw him little lass, if you are who you say.”

 

“Please just take us to him,” she said in a rush, suddenly full of hope and fear. “Please.”

 

He nodded, looking suddenly certain. “I’m afraid we have to ask for your weapons for the moment.”

 

Arya unbuckled Needle from her waist without a second thought, but she kept the knife in her boot just in case. Gendry followed suit, and they were surrounded in a circle. The red haired man rode on the side that Gendry wasn’t. “Your brother is one of the best people I’ve ever met,” he told her gravely. “He rescued the free folk from a fate worse than death.”

 

“Free folk…you’re from beyond the Wall?” She had to keep talking now that they were moving, or she might kick her horse into a gallop and leave them all behind. “Jon brought you here?”

 

“I imagine you two have stories to tell each other,” he said. “And your lady sister.”

 

Gendry had to reach out and steady her as she jerked hard and her horse reared in protest. She grasped his hand in the space between them, staring wide-eyed at the man. She found she couldn’t speak and the man chuckled. “I don’ suppose it matters much to you now, but my name is Tormund Giantsbane, on account of me big cock.”

 

That startled a laugh out of her and Gendry squeezed her hand gently before letting go. “You’re off to a good start,” he told Tormund. “She isn’t fond of being spoken to like a lady.” She was hardly listening anymore, eyes fixed on the castle that loomed closer with every breath.

 

“Open the gates!” she heard a yell as they drew close, and she spotted a figure running along the parapet. “Now!” Curly black hair flaked with snow blew around his head until he disappeared from sight, presumably taking a staircase to the ground. And she couldn’t stop herself anymore, kicking her horse to a trot and entering just as the gates opened enough to accept her, and she was being pulled down off of her horse into an embrace so familiar that she let out a sob.

 

She heard murmurs around her, heard the men getting off of their horses, felt Gendry standing a few feet away like she always could, but she was trying to breathe in as deeply as she could, tucking her face Jon’s neck and crying and not caring that all eyes were on the two of them, hugging in the middle of the yard beside a horse.

 

“Arya!” She lifted her face enough to see her sister rushing across the yard to them, and had just enough time to think of how unladylike tripping over her cloak was in her haste to get there, before Sansa crashed into them so hard that the three of them tumbled right to the ground. The air was knocked from her lungs when Jon’s large frame landed on her, but he rolled right over and sat up and hugged her waist as she leaned over to pull Sansa close and bury her face in her hair and cry there.

 

It didn’t surprise her when Sansa was the one to remember that they were surrounded by people. She stood, tugging Arya up with the hand she refused to let go of, and Jon caught her when she stumbled a little. “Sorry,” Sansa said breathlessly. “I lost myself for a moment.”

 

“I missed you,” was all Arya could think to say as Jon wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

 

 

 

They went into the hall in a tangle of limbs and holding hands, and when Arya twisted in Jon’s grip to reach for Gendry, he followed immediately, though he didn’t take her hand, and there was a strange expression on her face that she couldn’t read right then.

 

“You were wrong about the heroes in those stories you used to love, Sansa,” she said as soon as she could think straight, where she sat on what she assumed was Jon’s bed, bundled in furs with Jon. Sansa perched on the edge of the bed and, at Arya’s insistence, Gendry leaned against the window. “I’m not going anywhere without him,” she’d insisted, even though no one thought to argue.

 

It startled a laugh out of Sansa and she reached out to squeeze Arya’s hand. “I’m so sorry for all of the awful things I said to you,” she started to say.

 

“No, Sansa—”

 

“Let her,” Jon said with a grin. “She did the same with me.”

 

“I wish I had been better to you,” Sansa continued. “It’s all my fault, I’m the one who pushed Father to go to Kings Landing, and I told Cersei when we were leaving, and I thought…I thought…” Her bottom lip quivered.

 

“Don’t,” Arya said softly, tugging at her until she slid into the furs with her and Jon. Now that she was with her big brother and sister again she didn’t want to stop holding them close. “It isn’t important anymore. Please don’t apologize, Sansa, we were just children. And it wasn’t all bad,” she added, and her sister looked at her incredulously. “I didn’t have to be a lady for awhile. That was nice.”  


Gendry barked out a laugh. “She actually pretended to be a boy.”

 

Jon started grinning and Sansa looked as though she didn’t know whether to disapprove or ask about it. “What were you going to do, join the Night’s Watch?” Jon teased.

 

“I was with them, after Father,” Arya confessed. “That’s where I met Gendry.”

 

Now both of them were staring at her, and she was left with no choice but to tell them everything. Gendry helped when he could, because he knew most of the story now, if not the details, and those she tried to avoid. But Sansa wasn’t having it.

 

“You left the Hound for dead?” she said in shock.

 

“He was on my list,” Arya mumbled. “I didn’t feel good about it. I guess I stopped hating him. He took care of me.”  


“He offered to take me with him, when he left Kings Landing,” Sansa admitted. “I should have gone with him.” She swallowed. “You are right. The heroes are never like in the stories.”

 

“I’ve done a lot of bad things,” Arya said quietly. “I trained to be an assassin in Braavos. With the Faceless Men. I thought…I thought they could teach me how to kill, and I could kill Cersei and everyone else that ever hurt us. But they wanted me to become no one, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t forget you, or Mother and Father, or Bran and Rickon and Robb. They wanted to make it so you never existed and I couldn’t. I think they knew, because when I left, they tried to kill me with this.” And when she reached out, Gendry handed her Needle in its sheath, having gotten it back from Tormund.

 

Jon reached for the sword in wonder. “You’ve kept it,” he said in wonder.

 

“It was the last thing I had from home.”

 

It brought on another round of hugging, and sometime between that and the call for a feast in her honor, she told them everything else, about Nymeria (who was now curled up nose-to-tail with Ghost at the foot of the bed) and the battle at Riverrun and finding Gendry again.

 

“So why were you going to join the Night’s Watch?” Jon thought to ask after, glancing up at him. “Most people aren’t willing unless they’ve committed a crime.”

 

“I don’t know,” Gendry told him. “I was an apprentice to one of the greatest armorers in Kings Landing, and he made me go.” He bit her lip. “When I joined the Brotherhood, they acted like they knew something, but they never told me.”

 

“It’s because you’re a bastard.”

 

Jon frowned. “Arya, that doesn’t mean he has to go to the Wall. I went because I didn’t think that I would be able to honor the family name any other way.”

 

Arya struggled her way out of the furs and walked up to Gendry so she could look him in the eyes. “Uncle Edmure didn’t want you to be the one to travel with me here,” she said. “He didn’t think it would be safe. I told him that we’ve been protecting each other since we met and that you would never let me in harm’s way, but that wasn’t what he meant.”

 

It was Sansa who said it. “You’re Robert Barathon’s son.” Her voice was soft, but certain. Arya didn’t look away from Gendry, watching his face for any expression at all, but there was nothing there. He took a sudden deep breath, and then stepped forward and touched Arya’s shoulder. But he was looking at Jon.

 

“I told M’lady that I would not leave her again,” he said steadily. “She is my family now. If you would have me, I would stay. And if you wouldn’t, well…I would stay anyways.”

 

Arya turned in time to see Jon glance over at Sansa. “Do you have the power to legitimize him?” he asked quietly.

 

“Yes,” Sansa answered, “but I don’t think we need to. After all, you’re the Lord of Winterfell, according to the rest of the North.” She was looking at the two of them with something soft in her eyes, and Arya was struck with how different her sister had become. She hardly knew her anymore. “A ceremony in the godswood, do you think? Something quiet.”

 

“It won’t stay quiet forever,” Jon warned.

 

“It won’t need to.” Sansa was smiling now, eyes welling up with tears. “Not if the rumors are true.”

 

She jumped when Gendry’s arms suddenly snaked around her, pulling her right up against his chest. He buried his face in her hair and she could feel something wet on top of her head. She breathed in deep and something deep in her chest clicked into place. “A Stark and a Baratheon.” Her voice was muffled in his chest. “It’s not quite what Father had in mind, is it?”

 

“Is it what you want?” Sansa inquired, suddenly anxious. Arya turned to stare at her with a quirked eyebrow. “Well I don’t want to have you get married if—”

 

“I want to marry you,” Arya interrupted her, gaze snapping back to Gendry. She was worried suddenly that he thought she didn’t want to, but his eyes were shining and she could feel his fingers shaking where they held her. And then she laughed, head falling forward to rest in the crook of his neck. “I used to tell Father I would never marry a high lord and run his household.”

 

“You aren’t.” Jon grinned broadly. “You’re marrying a smith who just happens to be the son of a king. And you’re going to stay right here in Winterfell with your family.”

 

She slept in her old bed that night, Nymeria curled up at the end and Gendry beside her. Sansa reverted back to her old self long enough to suggest that they make another room up for him, but Arya stamped all over that immediately. “He’s staying with me,” she said angrily, especially because she had found out at the feast that Jon had died—actually died—and that Sansa had been betrothed to Petyr Baelish before Jon took her away from the Eerie.

 

“I can’t believe they let me talk about all of that and they didn’t tell me a thing,” she grumbled.

 

Gendry tucked her against his chest and kissed her forehead. “You have plenty of time to talk,” he reassured her, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. “We have time.”

 

And she remembered that she was home.


End file.
